What's Left
by M.L. Shards
Summary: A.U. Now what was left of those humans and their education and rules, was in him, and if he stayed on this island much longer he knew they were going to leave him too...One Shot


**What's Left**

**by M.L. Shards **

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Well my AP English Class is studying the book right now and I got really bored one night and then I began reading fan fictions where people re-wrote the ending of the book. I thought that was a neat idea and this was born…**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Lord of the Flies, it's as simple as that really…

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He felt the soft grains of sand slip through his fingers as he clutched blindly for something, anything, begging that he couldn't feel it, begging that he was in a nightmare, which was going to end any minute. To his dismay a thin layer of sand coated his sweaty hands and refused to get off as he rubbed them together as quickly as he could, hoping the friction would clean them.

He was on his knees, the torn and tattered pieces of his once clean and professional looking school uniform falling off of him. It seemed so long ago that he'd actually been clean, that he'd actually been a human being on an island with other human beings.

Now what was left of those humans and their education and rules, was in him, and if he stayed on this island much longer he knew they were going to leave him too. They'd been slipping away ever since they'd crashed; they'd been slipping away just like they had already slipped away from everyone else. His mind only remembered what to do but not why.

He tried to push himself to his feet, and oh lord did he try, but he couldn't bring his legs to work. There were cuts on them, flesh that had been torn away as he'd run through the trees, as he ran for his life. Now he couldn't bring himself to get up from his kneeling position, much less run anymore.

But he knew they weren't tired, and they wouldn't stop.

He felt the familiar pressure behind his eyes. It had felt like a part of him after so much time on the island, after Simon left them…no, correction, after he'd killed him. He was loosing his mind, he was loosing it…

He inhaled sharply, the action causing him to cough violently and the pressure behind his eyes to transform into tears that fell freely down his cheeks. He wasn't the leader anymore, there was no need to keep his emotions hidden, they didn't follow him anymore, and they didn't need him to be strong.

So he cried and coughed, and used his sandy hands to brush the tears away from his face. He could hear them coming and he knew what they were going to do. Samneric had told him they'd _"sharpened a stick at both ends" _which could only mean one thing.

He was a dead man walking.

They were going to kill him, cut his throat, and spill his blood like they longed to do with every goddamn boar on the island. Then they'd do something equally sadistic and put his head on a stick like they'd done with the pig's.

Is that really what they'd reduced him to? He'd been their leader, they'd elected him, they'd wanted him to lead…and now they thought of him as game, as a prey to be hunted and killed at no matter what the cost.

They'd burn down the island; destroy any hope of their survival. They'd burn their fruits, their shelter, their beloved boars, and any other wild animals that might be on the island. The thick smoke would fill their lungs and cause them problems that could hardly be fixed on an island. They'd suffocate, they'd starve, they'd give up any morals, and any common sense, just to kill him.

They'd killed Piggy, they'd killed Simon, they'd shatter the conch and stolen Piggy's glasses, there was no reason they wouldn't kill him. So he waited, gripping onto the sand in some last ditch effort to hold onto something, anything, not daring to hope they'd spare him.

He'd heard when he was younger that humans had two basic instincts; to fight or to flee. He'd never believed it before, after all, everyone was civilized, even with a war going on, things always appeared civilized. Appeared was the critical word. This island has taught him differently, there was no such thing as civility, only savagery covered up with rules and regulations.

He'd made the wrong assumption about human nature, and it was going to cost him his life.

He was only twelve for god's sake! He was supposed to live till he was eighty, he was supposed to graduate school, and he was supposed to have a life. He wasn't supposed to die, hunted like an animal by people who he'd gone to school with. He wasn't supposed to have his head on a stick while savage and sadistic boys danced around it with blood covering their hands, laughing at who they'd once trusted their lives with.

The sand continued to slip through his fingers, just like everything else he'd ever had, before and after the crash.

He heard footsteps behind him and knew they were coming. He could hear their voices and their battle cries. He could also hear his heart thumping rapidly in his ears so loud he was amazed others didn't.

"Oh my god, I'm going to die,"

He bit his bottom lip as more tears rolled down his cheeks. He was going to die, for some reason their voices, their sounds, made it feel all the more real.

A ruff and callused hand grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked it so he fell on his back looking up at them.

It was him. He carried the infamous "sharpened stick" he had been warned about and wore the mask of face paint that he was rarely seen without lately. His wild and redish hair stuck up on odd places which he would have thought looked funny if he wasn't so terrified at the moment.

He glanced to the sides of him to see the boys forming a hunting circle. The type of circle they'd used to kill the boars time after time. The unnerving fact was that it almost always worked.

"Aw, little Ralphie, so scared…look I'll give you one more chance, join my tribe,"

His eyes were wide as he stared back up at the older boy, "What about the rules?" he asked, but his voice sounded weak and raspy even to him.

"Screw the rules!"

A round of cheering erupted from the crowd around him.

"We are the judge, jury, defense and prosecutors, we run this island, and until you understand that you are not welcome," He then leaned down and whispered in Ralph's ear, "you know why you lost them, right? You need to give them what they want to hear."

Ralph wiped his eyes with the back of his hand determined to make sure Jack didn't see him crying. Tiny grains of sand transferred onto his eyelashes as he did, making him look younger and more innocent.

Jack laughed. How could he ever have been threatened by this little weakling? He was shaking, scared of what he'd thought was a stupid stick. Scared of the boys he'd insulted for their urge to hunt and their hunting skills. By doing this he forgot one thing…

Savagery is not limited to anyone or anything…

At that moment something in the former chief snapped. By some supernatural adrenaline rush he used Jack's closeness to grab him by the hair and pull him down to the ground. His head hit the sand and stunned him for a minute, which was all Ralph needed to get a hold of the "sharpened stick" and throw it passed the circle into the ocean. It floated away slowly. None of the boys dared to abandon the circle to retrieve it.

Jack recovered fairly quickly and grabbed Ralph around the waist flipping him as he clawed frantically, not caring what happened. The nails of his right hand that were bitten down to the skin of his finger sunk into the skin just above Jack's eye causing him to yelp suddenly, but not let go. It began to bleed slightly, but it was covered up by the decorative face paint that was starting to resemble a melted lollipop.

Their fight became a wrestling match that evolved into what appeared to be a well choreographed dance. One would move, the other dodge, both were crouched down low, both had murder in their eyes, and both were being egged on by the group of boys surrounding them.

"Yeah Jack!"

"Go Jack!"

The twins whispered softly so that the other didn't hear them, "Come on Ralph, don't give up."

He wasn't sure what had come over him, but it was strong, it was almost a drowning sensation of bloodlust and adrenaline. It gave him strength and speed beyond his own imagination and caused him to do things before he noticed he'd even been thinking about them.

The circled each other slowly. Jack wiped a few drops of blood away from his face where Ralph had nicked him, "Still think we're the savages?" he laughed and Ralph froze.

He'd done it again…he'd lost it. He'd lost it right in front of all of them. He didn't want to fight; he didn't want to…He couldn't…

He was distracted and confused and everything he'd ever believed had completely changed since he'd arrived. It was like he was two different people.

On one hand he was savage, the "beast", hunting, blood, death, gore, and running around in colourful face paint using battle cries seemed like a great way to live. Yet the other part was logical and still obeyed the rules that didn't exist.

He thought about this for a long time. He thought about it as Jack tackled him, as Roger swam out to retrieve the "sharpened stick", as the circle began smaller and smaller, so small it almost made him claustrophobic. He thought about it as he used his hands to cover his face as what felt like millions of little fists rained down on him as he wondered if this was what Simon felt.

He thought about it as he felt his arms, legs, chest, face, and neck bruising and as he felt his bottom lip start bleeding. He shut his eyes as hard as he could and he wondered about Piggy and Simon and where they were now. He wondered and as a sharp pain shot through his shoulder and he cried out in pain, his hand reaching to it out of instinct. He was crying freely, but ignoring the laughs and taunts he was receiving because of it.

He looked at his hand and saw it was covered in blood that was dripping onto what was left of his clothing.

But he was not going to beg. If he was going to die well he was going down with his morals, he was going down with honor and pride and goddamn it he was going down fighting.

He saw Roger pass the stick to Jack and with one last ditch attempt he pushed with all the strength he could muster, it didn't do too much good as he felt the stick plunge into his abdomen.

It was strange, because he'd expected to feel a lot more pain, but instead he felt numb. He looked at the boys who were almost all on top of him. They were confused and scared and deep inside it was obvious some still regarded him as their chief.

Ralph tried to grab onto a hand full of sand, but found the sand surrounding him was covered in bloody. His eyelids flickered a few times before he took one last raspy breath and fell to the sand, eyes closed.

The tribe of boys fell silent as the looked at the body of their former leader then back at the burning forest.

"What are we going to do?" Samneric asked nervously as they looked at the smoke that was rising up then back to Ralph who was unmoving.

Democracy, common sense, and their hope for being rescued…hell; the hope for their future on the island or off of it had died right then and there and all that remained of it was a bloody handprint on Jack's chest.

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